The Lady is a Spy
by Runt Thunderbelch
Summary: Yvonne is a tool for the Nazis, spying on the poor devils in Rick's Cafe Americain.   The idea comes from Gintomi's "As Time Goes By." That unfinished story has not been updated in over 2 years, so I wrote this.  Previously titled "Yvonne's Story."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: You will be shocked, shocked to learn I do not hold the copyright to Casablanca.

The Lady is a Spy

Chapter 1

Yvonne's hands were shaking so badly she didn't know how she could possibly shoot the two men. She hunkered in the shadows of the Casablanca train station, took long breaths, and willed her heart to slow.

She had to do this. She had to.

In the distance, the dark form of the train from Oran drew ever closer, its headlight so bright it gleamed even in the glare of the desert afternoon. The heat from the endless Sahara drifted up in undulating waves, glistening ironically like water. The train's approach across the desert was surreal, like a giant iron sea snake with a Cyclops eye. It was coming, and when it got here, Yvonne knew she had to do it.

Captain Heinz had been very specific. As soon as the train arrived, maybe even before it came to a complete stop, she was to get onboard. There might be passengers already heading for the exit. She was to push through them and was to immediately get to compartment 4-03. Open the door. Inside, there would be two men, one with an attaché case chained to his wrist. Then, with the pistol Heinz had given her, she was to first shoot the man without the attaché case. He'd be the guard, and he'd be armed and dangerous. The other was just a clerk. He probably wouldn't have a gun, and he'd be hampered by the attaché case. So, kill him second. Then take the bolt cutters Heinz had given her and had shown her how to use, cut the chain, take the attaché case, and bring immediately it to Heinz at the German consulate.

Do it, and her brother would finally be freed from the Nazi concentration camp. Don't do it, and her brother would not live out the week. Life may be cheap in Casablanca, but it was far cheaper in a concentration camp.

So Yvonne would do as Heinz had ordered, even though his instructions made no sense. The two couriers were already bringing the attaché case to Heinz. That was their mission. Wait just a few minutes, and they'd bring it to him. Why kill them to get the case? Heinz's instructions were madness, but if carrying them out would free her brother, she would kill the two men and get the case.

Fear ran up and down her arms and legs like ants. Her heart was racing again. She stood and steeled herself.

Near the rear of the train, a window opened, and a small man wearing a yellow suit and carrying an attaché case jumped out. The man fell when he hit the ground, tumbling in the dust. At this distance, it was hard to tell, but he might be Ugarté. The little man regained his feet, glanced quickly around to get his bearings and then ran off with the case.

Had it been Ugarté? The greasy little man was a freelancer whom Heinz employed from time to time, and it'd be just like that fat slob of a German to send out two agents on the same job. The little man had been carrying an attaché case, so maybe. On the other hand, there were more than one attaché case in the world, and the little man had not run off in the direction of the German consulate or even towards Ugarté's pigsty of an apartment. The only thing of interest in the direction he had run off to was Rick's Café Américain.

Should she follow him?

No. What if the two couriers were still alive and still had the attaché case? She had to be sure. She dried her palms on her skirt, gripped the satchel with the bolt cutters and pistol inside, and prepared to run.

A shriek of a police whistle cut the air. In a roar of gasoline exhaust and road dust, three touring cars filled with Vichy police skidded around the corner, raced across the dirt, and screeched to a halt beside the railroad track. The policemen piled out and took up positions along both sides of the track where the train would be stopping.

My god what was happening? Yvonne sprinted forward and charged up to their officer. "What's going on?" she demanded.

"Step back, s'il vous plait."

"Tell me!"

He saw the panic in her eyes. "We received a message from the train. Two men have been murdered. The killer must still be aboard. Step back, please. There may be gun play."

She stumbled away, head reeling. The little man had indeed been Ugarté. He had killed the couriers before she had a chance to, and now he had the case.

Her brother was doomed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When Yvonne questioned herself why Ugarté had not run towards the German consulate but rather had fled towards Rick's, she could come up with only one rational explanation. First, one had to take into account that Ugarté was a friend of Rick's (well, kind of). If Ugarté was taking the attaché case to Rick's rather than to Heinz, this meant Ugarté was betraying Heinz. Ugarté was keeping the case for himself. He would hide it at Rick's.

If this was so, there was still a chance she could get it back.

Yvonne hurried to the locker she had rented earlier in the day. She unlocked it, took out her purse, and replaced it with the satchel containing the pistol and the bolt cutters. The train station had a bank of payphones. She rummaged through her purse to find a franc and called Rick's.

"Rick's Café Américain," answered a gentle voice with just a hint of a Russian accent.

"Sasha, it's me. Yvonne."

"Ah, my lovely! I am in Heaven!" he gushed.

"I need to speak to Rick."

"And now . . . I am in Hell," the Russian moaned.

"Is he there?"

"One moment, my sweet. Any always remember, I love you." The phone clicked as she was put momentarily on hold, and then it was picked up again.

"Yeah?" snarled the gruff voice on the other end.

"Hello, Rick darling. It's me, Yvonne!" She forced her voice to be chipper. "I'm not sure how to say this, so I'll just say it. Remember a few months ago, when I got very, very drunk at your place, and we ended up being very naughty together?"

No response.

"Well, I'm feeling very naughty again."

The silence on the other end continued. "To tell you the truth," Rick said eons later, "I was quite drunk myself. I don't remember anything that happened that night."

"On Vichy water?" she reminded him. "But even if you are telling the truth, this would be the perfect time for me to come over and remind you."

"Hmmm," Rick mumbled. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"To the contrary," she purred, "I think it's a positively wonderful idea." She paused, keeping the artificial smile on her lips, making him be the one to speak first.

"You see . . . I have other plans."

"You can break them. I will make it well worth your time."

"Uh. What, exactly, did you have in mind?"

Beast. Was he actually going to make her use the words? The actual words? Over the telephone? Okay then, here's hoping the line wasn't tapped. She forced her voice to remain matter of fact, but she told him. Simply, lewdly, and in great detail. When she'd finished, her breath escaped her. She had never spoken so graphically to a man before. Yes, she'd done some pretty raunchy things, but she always tried to watch her language. "That is, dear Rick, unless you're going to turn me down and break my heart."

"No I uh . . . I couldn't do that." She could sense him squirming. "Why don't you come over here, say about eight? I still have that room upstairs."

So, he couldn't remember that first night, eh? "Of course, darling. I'll be there. Don't start without me."

She hung up.

So there was the plan. Let Rick do whatever he wanted with her until he passed out from exhaustion. Then, while he was sleeping, she'd find the attaché case, take it to Heinz, and get her brother freed.

She rang up Heinz at the consulate.

The German asked anxiously, "Do you have the case?"

"No. Ugarté got there ahead of me."

"Then what are you bothering me for?"

"Just to let you know that Ugarté is betraying you. He's not there with you, is he? Why do you think that is?"

"What are you saying?"

"He's taken the attaché case. He's keeping it for himself. Don't look for him at his apartment either. He's not there. But I know where he's going. And I can still get the case for you . . . if our deal is still on. Is it?"

Heinz's flabby brain chewed on these facts for awhile. "Of course, Fraulein. But things are urgent. You must get me that case within the next, say, 24 hours, or I'll send out the order of execution. Is that understood?"

"Make it 48 hours."

Heinz grunted. "Many things are beyond my control. If I can keep the deal open for 48 hours, I'll will. But to be honest, I don't think I can. Get me that case, or your brother dies!"

"What if Ugarté has emptied the attaché case and disposed of it? What am I really looking for?"

There was silence on the other end as Heinz determined how far he could trust her. "It contains a single Manila envelope. Inside the envelope are two letters of transit, each signed by General Pétain. They are the type that cannot be rescinded, not even questioned."

Mon Dieu, she thought to herself. On the black market, those letters would be worth a fortune. "I will get them for you," she promised and hung up. She looked up at the station clock and trembled. She had very little time. This would be close, so very close.

"Mademoiselle?"

Yvonne turned to find herself facing an embarrassed-looking police officer. "Yes?"

"Come with me, please."

"Come? Come where? What for?"

"You are under arrest."

Her heart stopped. "What . . . is the charge?"

"Suspicion of murdering two German couriers."

"But I wasn't even on the train!"

"No. But you are young, and you are beautiful. And I have my standing orders from Captain Renault. You are to be brought in for questioning."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When Yvonne was finally taken from her jail cell to the office of the Prefect of Police, the first thing she did was check the clock. It was well after seven in the evening. Mon Dieu, so late! She had to get out of here fast!

Louis Renault was sitting at his desk, looking tired. How many young ladies had he "questioned" today? His blurry eyes took her in and then suddenly brightened in recognition. "Ah Yvonne! What are you doing here, my dear?"

Her escort answered for her. "We picked her up at the train station. She had no good explanation for why she was there. What she did have, though, was a key to one of the lockers, and inside, we found this." The man placed Yvonne's satchel on Renault's desk. He set her purse down next to it.

The captain opened satchel, saw its contents, and frowned.

Yvonne's escort bent over and whispered into Renault's ear, mistakenly believing that Yvonne could not hear him. "The killer left his own bolt cutters in the compartment where we found the two bodies. This gun is not the same caliber as the murder weapon. And, it has not been fired."

Renault straightened, looking puzzled. What was going on here? Two assassins? "Thank you. You may go," he said to the policeman, who obediently left the room. Renault again looked into the satchel. "Yvonne," he said, "can you tell me what the purpose of these two items is?"

Yvonne glanced again at the clock. "I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe me."

The Prefect smiled. "Try me."

She shook her head. "It would be a waste of time. Do this instead." She hesitated but then reminded herself there was no other way. "Call Captain Heinz. He'll tell you."

"What?" Fear and uncertainty flashed Renault's eyes.

"Call the military attaché at the German consulate. His name is Heinz; you know that. Captain Heinz will tell you."

Renault sat back heavily in his chair, studying her. His mind was easy to read: Were the Nazis mixed up in this? And if so, what did Renault dare do about it?

"Would you like me to give you his number?"

Renault gave a weak shake of his head. He picked up his phone receiver and dialed. "Good evening," he said when the phone was answered. "This is Louis Renault, Prefect of Police. By any chance, is Captain Heinz still there?"

There was a short pause while he was connected.

"Good evening, Captain. This is Louis. I have a certain situation that's come up here that maybe you can help me with.

"Today, we arrested a young lady at the train station. She's the same one that you were eyeing the other night at Rick's. Remember? We joked about it."

Heinz's voice came through, muffled.

"Correct. Yvonne. She has a satchel, and in it, are a pistol and bolt cutters. When I asked her about it, she suggested I call you."

Heinz voice roared back. She couldn't make out the words, but he sounded very, very angry.

In contrast, Renault remained remarkably calm. "No, that isn't my question." He endured another torrent of angry words and then continued. "Would you listen to what I have to ask you? It's a single question, very simple. Would you like me to release her?"

A few more words came over the line, more questioning than angry.

"That's right. If you wish me to release her, I will, and no more questions asked."

Heinz remained quiet for what seemed to be an eternity. Then he spoke two words.

Renault nodded. "I will be happy to do so. Thank you for your assistance. Good evening." He hung up, looked over at Yvonne, and shrugged. "You are free to go."

Had she heard him correctly? "May I have my purse back?"

He handed the purse over but put the satchel on the floor. "I'll keep this here for safe keeping, if you don't mind."

Yvonne's head was spinning as she got up and made her way towards the exit. She went passed Renault's coach, upon which she had, more than once, convinced him she was innocent of the crime with which she had been falsely charged. At the door, she turned back. "I'd like to go to Rick's. Would you be so kind as to have one of your men call me a cab?"

He smiled an oily smile. "Better than that. I'll have one of them drive you."

Rick's Américain was already crowded by the time she got there. Loud voices tumbled over each other (except for the conspiratorial whispers at various tables). Laughter brayed; glasses clinked. Sam's upright piano pounded out a gloriously happy tune.

But Rick was nowhere to be found.

Nor was Ugarté.

Yvonne did find Karl, the former university professor who was Rick's head waiter. He told her than Rick had left early without saying where he was going or if and when he'd be back. Yes, Ugarté had been here too, later, but when Ugarté had found out Rick was no longer there, he had run out of the club in a panic and hadn't been seen since.

So Yvonne sat down at the bar, had a drink, and hoped that either Rick or Ugarté would return soon. Sasha served her a double. She drank the drink, and then another.

She drank, and drank, and drank.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A thundering headache awoke her the next morning. She lay motionless for awhile and then dragged back the single sheet to find she was wearing only panties.

Yvonne couldn't remember how she had gotten home.

She got unsteadily to her feet, waited for her stomach to settle and headed for the aspirin. Her bra had been placed neatly on the top of her dresser, but where was the rest of her clothing? She opened her closet and found the garments hanging neatly. On the floor, her shoes stood in perfect formation. She blinked and looked again. They had been shined.

A few unsteady steps took her to her medicine cabinet. She shook a pair of aspirin into her palm and then discovered her bathroom glass was missing. She went to her kitchenette to get a replacement and was astonished to see that her dishes had all been washed and now were sitting in the rack, perfectly dry.

There was a note that said simply, "Yvonne – I love you."

Talk about presumptuous! She was so enraged, she actually stamped her foot. -–And was surprised when it didn't stick to the floor. A closer examination showed Sasha had mopped it.

Rick's wasn't open for the lunch crowd yet, so Yvonne went around to the kitchen entrance. She burst through, tried to ignore the banging of pots and pans which threatened to split her still throbbing skull, and stormed out into the café's main room. Sasha was behind the bar, finishing up his last-minute preparations for opening.

Yvonne bellowed, "Who the hell do you think you are? My mother!"

Nonplussed, Sasha simply held up a small slip of paper. "Yvonne," he said. "I love you."

Her stride hesitated for a moment. She snatched the paper from his hand. It was a phone message. "Rick – Ugarté will be in here this evening. He must speak with you - very important and very urgent! –S."

Her rage subsided somewhat. "Did Ugarté say where he is now?"

Sasha flinched. "No. Just that."

Yvonne was about to let a verbal torrent loose upon him when the phone rang. He answered it and then scrabbled for a pen with which to take the reservation. This was a tactical mistake on his part. The delay let Yvonne's anger rekindle, and Sasha seemed to be unaware of the venom that he was about to be hit with.

When the call finished, he hung up and turned to her, his face white as a ghost. He was trembling.

"Sasha, what is it?"

"Viktor Laszlo just made a reservation for tonight. I actually spoke to him. I spoke to Viktor Laszlo."

She had to find Ugarté or Rick or something. Yvonne tried first at the Blue Parrot, but neither man was there. The owner, Signor Ferrari, made a half-hearted pass at her but was not disappointed when she declined. In the sweltering heat of the Sahara, making love to beautiful women took too much effort.

Next, Yvonne went to Ugarté's apartment.

She was so surprised to see his front door open that she stumbled back into the shade of a nearby building to get her thoughts straight. Before she could do anything, Heinz's aide Oberleutnant von Koln emerged. He was wearing ill-fitting civilian clothes and might have been carrying a pistol, which he quickly slipped into a shoulder holster under his jacket. Von Koln glanced around, clattered down the flight of wooden steps to the street and grabbed a nearby scrawny man.

"I told you," wailed the man. "I have not seen him in two days!"

"If you see him, do not tell him I was here." Von Koln shoved the scrawny man to the ground and then strode arrogantly off towards the German consulate.

Yvonne shadowed him. The guards were used to seeing her there and let her in without incident. She went quickly to Heinz's office.

"Have you found Ugarté yet?" Heinz asked.

"No, and neither has von Koln. But I know where he'll be tonight."

"Where?"

"At Rick's Café," she informed him. "Captain Heinz, you must admit I've been a great help to you. What kind of help will I be in the future if my brother is dead?"

He sneered as he stood and began gathering up his things. "I have already told you. That is out of my hands. Besides, the most you have done is to tell me things a few moments before I would have otherwise found them out. You are not so much an asset to the Third Reich as you may believe."

"What if I can tell you something you don't know?"

Heinz shook his head. "Fraulein, I do not have time for your little fantasies. My superior is flying in, and I must be at the airport to greet him."

"Viktor Laszlo is in Casablanca."

The fat German sighed with exasperation. "I know exactly where Viktor Laszlo is. At this very moment, he is in Oran. He is being very closely watched by some of our best agents. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Viktor Laszlo is in Casablanca. He has a reservation at Rick's for this evening."

Heinz turned to look at her. "It makes no difference. I've told you repeatedly, whether your brother lives or dies is out of my hands. You were given twenty-four hours to obtain the letters of transit," he glanced at his watch. "And your time is nearly up."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Maybe it was not too late.

When the others had left for the airport, Heinz had left Oberleutnant von Koln in charge of security in the consulate. Yvonne had flirted with the young aide, and although he had pretended not to be interested, he did let slip that no order of execution had yet been made. Also, any such order must necessarily come though him. Yvonne realized that, if she were unsuccessful at getting her hands on the letters of transit, she would have to be very nice to von Koln. He could be her brother's only hope.

Yvonne was now dressed in her sexiest outfit and was camped out in the main room at Rick's. When Ugarté came in, she would be sure to spot him.

What she did not know was that Ugarté had already spotted the Vichy police staked out in front, and so he'd come around via the back, had entered through the kitchen, had pushed by the crowd at the entry into the gambling room, and had disappeared inside.

When Sam started singing, "Knock on Wood," Rick drifted out of the back room. He strode across the crowded floor as the audience around him joined in Sam's song. He walked up behind Sam's piano, bathed in the spotlight. When Sam sang, the spotlight remained on him. But when the audience responded, it jumped away to them, leaving Sam and Rick in darkness.

Once the song was over, Rick left the spotlight. Signor Ferrari came over to Rick as Sam began playing "The Very Thought of You." The two saloon keepers exchanged pleasantries. Then they sidled over and spoke to Sam. Sam grinned and said something. Signor Ferrari shrugged good naturedly and left.

Sasha poured Yvonne another cognac and murmured, "The boss's private stock because, Yvonne, I love you."

"Oh shut up."

"All right, all right. For you I'll shut up," Sasha replied, "because Yvonne, I love you. -Uh oh."

Rick was coming over. Yvonne's eyes shot daggers at the man who was responsible, most likely, for her brother's death. Why had he stood her up? She was willing to do anything for him. She drained her glass.

Sasha picked up a check that had been sitting on the counter. "Monsieur Rick, Monsieur Rick, some Germans bo-bo-bo-bum gave me this check. Is all right?"

Rick turned his back to her and tore the check in two.

She was stalking him now, coming up behind him. Then her knees weakened and she needed the help of a barstool to stand. "Where were you last night?"

"That was so long ago, I don't remember."

"Will I see you tonight?"

He said wearily, "I never make plans that far ahead."

He was toying with her. She shoved her empty glass at Sasha, demanding a drink. What else was there for her to do? Then there were words, and she suddenly found herself being manhandled by Rick towards the front door. "Too much to drink," he had said.

As she struggled, the door to the back room opened, and Yvonne caught a glimpse of the sad face of Ugarté peering out. Then he vanished behind the closing door.

Mon Dieu, he was already here!

Rick pushed Yvonne out the front door to where Sasha had summoned a taxi. "You go with her, Sasha, and make sure she gets home."

"Yes boss!"

"And come right back."

Sasha sagged. "Yes, boss." The Russian marched her over to where the taxi was waiting while Rick turned his back on her once again and headed back for his saloon. Sasha opened the cab door for her.

She kneed him in the crotch and ran.

The End


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

As Yvonne headed around the corner, she heard poor Sasha flopping around on the sidewalk like a landed fish. She ran around to the back of the café and raced in through the kitchen entrance. "Where's Sasha?" she shouted at the startled staff.

One of them answered, "He should be tending bar."

"Merci!"

She headed into the main room, but quickly made a sharp right and scurried up the stairs. A quick glance downwards told her that thankfully Rick had not yet come back inside. She tried the door to his office, but merde, it was locked! If Ugarté had given Rick the letters of transit, and he undoubtedly had, then the letters would be somewhere inside. She had to get in!

Yvonne went back the way she'd come and tried another door. This one opened. Inside was a cluttered store room. She closed the door behind her and tried the room's single window. It too was unlocked, but it hadn't been opened in such a long time that it was a struggle to do so now. She wrestled it up and looked outside. As she had hoped there was a ledge running along where the ground floor met the one above it. But the ledge was only about five centimeters wide.

She kicked off her high heels, prayed that she was not nearly as drunk as Rick had claimed her to be, and squirmed out of the window and onto the ledge. She inched along above the alleyway, feeling the gritty concrete beneath her feet and being assaulted by the odors floating up from the alley below, mostly stale urine and fresh camel dung.

She finally reached his office window, which was covered by a muslin screen. She detached it easily enough, and it sailed down into the trash of the alley. The window inside was open, and so in she went.

Yvonne remembered where his desk had been and found it easily even in the dark. She switched on his desk light and rummaged through the drawers, looking for either a manila envelope or the letters themselves. Nothing.

She spotted the wall safe, which she'd completely forgot about, and flew to it. But it was locked. Was Rick the type who leaves the combination laying around somewhere just in case he forgot it? Not likely!

Footsteps were approaching.

She dashed back to the desk, killed the light, pulled out the wooden chair, and ducked into the hollow space.

Rick's key rattled in the lock. He unlocked the door, switched on the ceiling light and went to the wall safe.

Renault followed him, saying, "Rick, we're going to have an important guest here tonight, Major Strasse." He prattled on as Rick opened the safe and pulled out some stacks of cash. The cash was passed to a croupier in the hall, who apologized, and left.

Rick invited Renault in for a brandy, but really to ask him what was going on.

"There is a man arriving in Casablanca who'll offer a fortune to anyone for an exit visa."

"What's his name?" asked Rick.

"Viktor Laszlo."

Laszlo and the letters of transit? Was there a connection?

Heinz would not be planning to sell the letters to Laszlo, because if so, there'd be no reason to murder the couriers. Once Heinz had rightfully received the letters, he could have simply sold them. And Heinz wasn't the type who was interested in mere money. Rather, he enjoyed his position of power which let him play God with other peoples' lives. Or rather, play Satan

The realization hit her like ice water. It was not the letters which were important. It was the murders!

Laszlo had committed no crime in French Morocco nor indeed anywhere in Vichy France. The French had no excuse with which to arrest him. But if Laszlo were tied in with the couriers' murders, if he were found with the incriminating letters of transit in his possession, he would go to prison for years. He maybe would even face a firing squad.

The two men talked until Renault's aide came in to tell the Prefect that Major Strasse had arrived. Renault hurried away to be followed shortly by Rick.

As the door closed, Yvonne crept from her hiding place and went to the door. Only the usual noise from the crowd came through the door. She flipped on the light and went back to the safe. Often people will be lazy and won't turn the dial far enough to scramble it. She inched the metal dial back very slowly until she felt it click. She tried the handle, and voila, the safe opened easily.

Inside were two shelves, one with stacks of currency and the other with stacks of documents. She searched the documents until she was sure the letters of transit were not there.

Suddenly gunfire erupted downstairs. She heard Ugarté shrieking, "Rick! Rick! Help me!"

Yvonne slammed the safe closed, turned off the light, eased the door open and peeked down to the main floor.

Vichy police were pulling Ugarté off of Rick and were taking the terrified little man away. He fought, struggled and begged, but his efforts were useless. "Rick!" he screamed. "Rick!" But inexorably, the French police were dragging Ugarté off to his doom.

And Rick was practically gloating. "I stick my neck out for nobody," he announced proudly.

So she had no letters of transit, and now she had no Ugarté.

How was she ever going to save her brother?


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The next evening, Yvonne entered into the laughter of Rick's Café on the arm of Oberleutnant von Koln. The trombone player was the first to notice her and, in tribute, he struck up "You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby." The rest of the house band spotted her and eagerly joined in. She strode across the main floor, with her white low-cut blouse and her whiter skirt, looking more gorgeous than an angel, albeit a fallen one.

Yvonne and von Koln swept by Rick, who was sitting at a table with Renault. Both men looked a little jealous, and she shot them a triumphant glance before ignoring them.

"Sasha!" she exulted as they approached the bar. The Russian looked miserable, but it served him right for having sided with Rick against her.

Von Koln was already ordering champagne. "French '75!"

"Starting here," agreed Yvonne slamming one hand down on the bar, "and ending here!" Her other hand came down some distance away.

The Oberleutnant chuckled indulgently and cuddled her as he sat. "We will begin with two."

A contemptuous insult came from the Vichy policeman on the other side of her. "You are not French if you go with a German like this," the policeman hissed in their native language. She twisted and suddenly hot words were flying back and forth between them like hornets.

"No, no, no, no! One moment," von Koln's attempt at French was awkward, almost unintelligible. The German was back on his feet, hurrying passed her, and he angrily twisted the Frenchman around to face him. "What did you say? Would you kindly repeat it?"

"What I said," sneered the policeman, glaring up at the much bigger man, "is none of your business!"

"I'll make it my business!" Von Koln slapped him, and suddenly the two men were clashing together like bull elephants.

Yvonne was screaming vainly at them. The Germans at a nearby table were getting to their feet. Vichy police were coming from the other side.

Then Rick was there, pushing them apart. "I don't like disturbances in my place! You either lay off politics or get out!"

A friendly hand came through the crowd and pulled the Frenchman away. Seeing the retreat, the Germans reluctantly settled back down at their own table. A new man, undoubtedly Major Strasse, looked particularly annoyed.

Yvonne had hunkered over the bar and was trying hard not to cry. Didn't he understand! Didn't that miserable little flea understand? Being French had no meaning anymore. France had ceased to exist.

French armies had been shattered; the French government had collapsed; the French geography had been ripped it two, with its northern half under the jackboot of occupation, and its southern half run by an impotent puppet government. The French people had been ground underfoot. The boys whom she'd gone to school with had been slaughtered on the battlefield, and the girls had been raped in their beds. If any of her friends were still alive, it would only be because of the intervention of God.

Her parents had gone to Rotterdam on a business trip in 1940, had been caught in the bombing, and had not been heard from since. Her older brother was a Nazi hostage and had been executed. Her younger brother was barely clinging to life in a concentration camp.

For France, the war was over. The French had lost. They had lost! In reprisal, the Nazis had taken everything from them: Their lives, the fortunes, their freedom, their hope. There was nothing left to fight for. There was nothing left to be French for.

All she could do now was to try and save her brother and to try to survive herself. To try to do anything more was just delusional.

"Are you all right, Liebling?" asked von Koln.

She nodded miserably.

He gently helped her to her feet and led her around Major Strasse's table to an empty table just beyond. Now at least, she had a buffer zone. He brought her a glass of champagne, and she sipped it, trying to lose herself in its cold chill.

Yet there was no champagne cold enough, no laughter loud enough, and no music gay enough to conceal the gaping emptiness within her. France was dead. The French as a people were dead. And she too was dead; she just hadn't stopped moving around yet.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

It was with a morbid curiosity that Yvonne watched Viktor Laszlo as he strolled into Rick's that night. She recognized him from his many newspaper photos. Laszlo wasn't a stunningly handsome man, but his carriage was erect, his confident was palpable, and even from this distance, the intelligence and cool intensity of his eyes was evident.

With him was perhaps the most beautiful woman Yvonne had ever laid eyes on, but like Laszlo's good looks, the beauty of this woman was quiet, understated and confident. She wore a ruffled blouse of gold with a wine-colored belt.

Rick personally greeted them near the door and after a few pleasantries, Rick had Paul seat them at a table near Sam. He whispered something to his piano player, who looked surprised and then reluctantly began to play the old Rudy Vallée hit "As Time Goes By." With that, Rick retreated into the back room.

Yvonne sipped her champagne and tried to ignore the Germans as they grew ever more drunk and ever more loud. But they were the Masters of Europe and of North Africa. Why shouldn't they get intoxicated and obnoxious if they wanted?

Time passed.

Rick appeared again at the door to the back room. As Yvonne watched, a painfully young brunette crept into his arms and planted a kiss his neck. He freed himself from her grip and guided her back the way she had come. Then he strolled back into the main room, followed by a doting Karl.

"More champagne?" asked von Koln, filling Yvonne's glass for her without waiting for an answer. He grinned wolfishly with a face flushed with alcohol. His perfect hair was getting mussed. Then he frowned. "Are you still crying?"

She shook her head.

"Your face is a mess," von Koln chided. "May I suggest you retire to the ladies' room and make repairs?"

Obediently, she stood and did what he said. In truth, it was a welcome relief to get a respite from stench of the Reich. But she had to be nice to von Koln. Only he could intercept the order that would otherwise snuff out her brother's life.

Yvonne had fixed her face was applying cool water to the back of her neck when the lady in the gold blouse came in. "Good evening, Yvonne," she said in a gentle voice.

"Have we met?"

The lady's smile had a hint of wistfulness in it. "No. But we of the resistance have our sources of information too." She hesitated but then held out a white envelope. "Viktor Laszlo wants me to give this to you, with his deepest regrets. And you have my regrets as well."

Yvonne took the envelope and studied the lady's face.

"Read it. It's important."

Yvonne opened the envelope and extracted the two pages. A glance showed it was a death certificate, written in German. Her blood froze. Her eyes scrambled around the document. The name of the decedent was her brother's. No, no, no! The vital descriptions were his, except the weight was far too little. The cause of death, a skull fracture. The date of death, three and a half months earlier! Yvonne stumbled backwards into a washbasin. Only it kept her from falling.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Yvonne was back at her table now. Von Koln's beefy hand held hers, which was okay because it left her other hand free to drink with. Although the champagne was of an excellent vintage and was expertly chilled, she'd make sure the next bottle von Koln bought was something much stronger. This evening she would need something much, much stronger.

She glared at Captain Heinz and longed to have the pistol back so she could shoot him right in the middle of his fat, sweaty face. He was a creature without conscience, without mercy, without a wisp of humanity with him. He sat at a table surrounded by his fellow scum, dressed in their dreary grey and black.

The Nazis had commandeered Sam's piano and began to bellow out some German song about the "Vaterland." Their language was an offense to the ear and to the soul as well, sounding like beer bottles being ground up in a cement mixer.

Suddenly, Laszlo passed in front of her as he stormed over to Rick's house band. "Play La Marseillaise!" he told them.

This command was met with looks of surprise and fear.

"Play it!"

They hesitated for just a few heartbeats, and then the first few uncertain notes rang out.

Laszlo sang, "Allons enfants de la Patrie!" and much to Yvonne's surprise, by the end of the line, customers were joining in. A tableful of Vichy police were already scrambling to their feet to stand at attention. The strolling guitar player began singing in her warblely voice, and she was Spanish.

"The day of glory has arrived!" A man here stood, singing. A woman there. Berger, the Norwegian. Karl, the German Jew. All were getting to their feet, sprouting up like mushrooms in a spring rain.

"Against us, tyranny has raised the bloody banner." More and more people were joining, all across the café. Singing defiantly, raising up in loyalty to France and to liberty. English, Bulgars, Slavs, even Sasha the crazy Russian.

"Do you hear in the countryside . . ."

Now Yvonne was singing too.

"The howling of those ferocious soldiers?"

She sang for her dead schoolmates, for her dead parents, for her dead brothers.

"They are coming right into your arms . . ."

Major Strasse frantically led his men in their song, trying to use it to drown out the music of this defiance. The look on his face revealed that he knew his efforts were a waste.

"To slit the throats of your sons and women!"

Tears of amazement gathered in Yvonne's eyes. Emotions swept over her, feelings so powerful that she could barely keep singing. But she couldn't stop, not for the world!

Then Strasse gave up and sat down. His officers had no choice but to follow him.

Laszlo squared his shoulders and practically roared the lines, "To arms, citizens! Form your battalions!"

By now, everyone was on their feet. One old man in the middle was enthusiastically waiving his fist.

"Marchons, marchons! Qu'un sang impur, abreuve nos sillons!"

A cheer went up. It swept around the room and kept going and going.

Yvonne couldn't help but cry out, "Viva la France!" She looked right into the eyes of a shaken von Koln. "Viva la France!" she shouted at him. He turned away. At the table of Nazis, Captain Heinz sat bewildered, too stupid to understand what had just happened. "Vive la France! Vive la France!" And at Major Strasse, who looked as if someone has just shoved a haddock up his rectum, Yvonne shouted once again, "Vive la France!"

The End


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